The Tragedy at Whitehaven Mansions
by Shaitarn
Summary: The world's greatest detective is murdered; can Captain Hastings, with help from Miss Lemon and Chief Inspector Japp, bring his killer to justice?
1. Prologue

_(I owe enormous thanks to Amaris Moon, my wonderful beta-reader, who did an awful lot to lick this into shape!)_

It was never my intention to write the tale of my last adventure with my dear friend Poirot, particularly as it contains details that may well see me sent to the gallows should it ever come before the eyes of the law. I suppose in the end it was habit and the perverse desire to leave a clear record of events that persuaded me to pick up my pen once more.

I did suggest omitting or changing a few details to Miss Lemon – protecting the innocent, and so forth – but she simply gave me one of her stern looks and said "The full truth, Captain Hastings!" and so I have, with some slight reluctance, acquiesced to her words.

I hope whoever may eventually read this tale understands that sometimes the law and justice do not walk hand in hand. If not – well, we have made our choice and will face the ultimate justice in the hour of our deaths.

I offer no apologies. I have no regrets.

Captain Arthur Hastings, London, 1939.


	2. Chapter 1

It was the week before Christmas, always a quiet time for Poirot workwise. I fancied it was because people were so taken with the spirit of the season, but Poirot scoffed at this idea. "Always you are the romantic, Hastings," he would say and point out with a certain grim relish the spike in the number of cases he received in the first weeks of the new year. I wasn't terribly keen on celebrating the season and hadn't been since my first Christmas in the trenches, but I always helped Poirot with the decorations – the string of cards, the wreaths of holly and red ribbon, the delicate carved figures of the nativity scene displayed on the side (one of the few items he'd saved from his home and brought into exile with him); I think I was the only person who could deal with his constant fractional adjustments and re-adjustments until he pronounced himself satisfied.

As there was no member of my family I wished to spend Christmas with (with the possible exception of my younger sister Laura, and she was spending the holiday period on one of her archaeological digs in Egypt) and I had no desire to attend a shoot I'd been invited to in Norfolk (the hall where the shoot was taking place was one of the coldest, most draughtiest buildings I'd ever had the misfortune to stay in), I was spending only my second Christmas with Poirot. He grumbled so much about my being in the way that I was actually quite hurt and considered clearing out and spending the holiday in my own flat. But Miss Lemon assured me his complaints were all an act. "He's actually looking forward to it." She told me with one of her small smiles. "I heard him arguing with the butcher the other day, insisting the meat 'must be just so, for _mon cher ami _Hastings'."

My gratitude and amusement at her imitation of Poirot made me smile. We were in her office, Miss Lemon at her typewriter, me leaning against the cabinet housing the bulk of her elegant and incomprehensible filing system. "Are you spending the holiday with anyone, Miss Lemon?" I asked, and then winced inwardly at my own tactlessness.

Miss Lemon didn't seem to notice the awkwardness of my words. "I shall be spending a couple of days with my sister and her family," She said. "Mister Poirot has given me a week and a half off on full pay."

"I say! That was generous of him."

"Yes. Almost too generous I should say." She frowned slightly. "I can't imagine what I should do with myself for that long. I might suggest coming back earlier."

"Maybe you could come and visit us." I suggested. "By the way-" I lowered my voice slightly, "could you do me a favour, Miss Lemon?"

"I should imagine so." She looked at me expectantly.

"Well, I haven't brought Poirot a present yet-"

She raised her eyebrows at me. "You're leaving it a little late, Captain Hastings. It's the 23rd tomorrow."

"I know, but I wondered if you'd mind helping me find a decent present for him. I'd hate to get something he couldn't bear." Considering one of my previous gifts of a stuffed cayman had ended up in the box room, I wasn't at all confident of my ability to buy something he'd like.

She smiled. "I have a half day tomorrow. Will tomorrow afternoon suit you?"

I gave her a smile in response. "Absolutely. And thank you."

* * *

"I'll be going now then, Mister Poirot."

He glanced up at her, smiling. "_Oui. Au revoir,_ Miss Lemon."

"Goodbye, Mister Poirot; Captain Hastings."

"Goodbye, Miss Lemon." I caught her eye and couldn't help but grin as I spoke. She gave a small cough to hide her own amusement. Tricking Poirot, even in such a small, benign way, had both of us feeling like mischievous schoolchildren. I waited for about ten minutes or so after she'd gone before I stood up and stretched. "I'm just heading out for a spell, Poirot." I said.

He glanced up at me. "You desire the fresh air, _mon ami_?"

"Something like that." I agreed. "Can I get you anything?"

"_Non, merci._ I have all I want. You will return in time for tea, yes?"

"Oh yes; absolutely."

"_Bon._" He smiled. "I will see you soon then, Hastings."

* * *

Miss Lemon proved to be as capable at suggesting suitable presents as she was at running her office, and at the end of two hours I had three presents – a box of Belgium chocolates, a pair of grey gloves of fine leather and my personal favourite, a pair of silver and onyx cufflinks that we both agreed were modestly stylish enough for Poirot to wear.

I was so grateful for her help that I insisted on taking her to a tea house as a small thank you. Our conversation turned naturally enough to Christmases we'd experienced in the past. Miss Lemon asked me about the famous Christmas truce and football match between the British and German soldiers in 1914, and I confirmed that it had really happened and that I'd been there, although at the time I'd been a new arrival – one of 'Kitchener's Mob' as we were known, a recently commissioned subaltern. I didn't tell her the aftermath of that romantic story – the army brass had been furious at the truce and the unwillingness to resume hostilities and had threatened that if any man refused to continue fighting he risked being court-martialled for treason.

Part-way through our reminisces Miss Lemon suddenly frowned. "Blast," she muttered.

"What's wrong?"

"I forgot to collect some letters I meant to post." She said, still frowning. "Which means they may not be dealt with until after Christmas. And one was a bill that needed paying." She sighed with annoyance; Miss Lemon seemed to expect perfection from herself even more than Poirot did. "I shall have to apologise to Mister Poirot in the morning."

"I can give you a lift back to Whitehaven Mansions." I offered. "I'm returning there in any case."

Her frown cleared and she gave me a look of gratitude. "If you're sure you don't mind, Captain Hastings."

"Of course not." I reassured her with a smile.

* * *

The sun had been setting when we had finished shopping and though it was still early – not yet five o'clock – it was full dark by the time we left the tea house. Poirot had often commented that he was glad the dangerous conditions made my driving 'safer' – by which he meant slower – in the winter, though he often complained bitterly that he was sure it was the cold wind of travelling in the Lagonda that gave him colds. I was relieved that Miss Lemon didn't appear to have any such concerns. Maybe she simply found the chill bracing, as I did myself.

We were almost at Whitehaven Mansions when I heard the screech of tyres on the tarmac, and a car roared up out of the darkness, coming around the corner much too fast. I was forced to swerve to avoid a collision, driving the Lagonda up over the kerb and knocking over a couple of bins, and only received the impression that it was a red car of some kind, possibly an Austin. "Blasted maniac!" I snapped, and then looked at my passenger. "Are you alright, Miss Lemon?"

She drew in a sharp breath and nodded. "Just startled, Captain Hastings. They were driving like lunatics."

"Yes, they were." I agreed as I re-started the car. Thankfully she hadn't been damaged and responded eagerly enough that I was soon pulling up in my usual parking spot outside Whitehaven Mansions.

It may just be hindsight, but I'm sure that I had a feeling of something being vaguely wrong from the moment we entered the silent vestibule of the block. I quickened my pace as we took the stairs to Poirot's apartment until Miss Lemon was having to trot to keep up with me.

The eerie sense of unease grew when I saw Poirot's apartment; the door was very slightly ajar. My little friend was as neat as a cat, and wouldn't leave a door open any more than he would leave a spot of oil untreated on his suit. The hairs at the back of my neck prickled, and I made a vague sort of 'wait here' gesture to Miss Lemon as I moved to the flat and eased the door open. Inside it was silent and dark, the only light coming from one of the lamps in the sitting room that doubled as Poirot's office, merely a bright blurred shape behind the mostly closed glass doors.

My palm was itching for the weight of a gun as I stepped quietly into the hallway. I eased one of Poirot's sticks from the stand by the door with a vague idea of using it as a weapon. "Poirot?" I said softly and waited for a response, happy to appear foolish if only my friend would appear and ask me what I was doing.

There was no answer. I half-turned so my back was against the wall and took silent footsteps down the hallway. I used the stick to push open the doors of the rooms as I passed – the spare room I slept in when I stayed over, Miss Lemon's office, the bathroom – all were dark, silent and empty.

I was dimly aware of Miss Lemon following slowly behind me, and still praying that the sick feeling of unease was purely my imagination, I pushed open the glass doors of Poirot's office.

The desk, the sofa I'd been sprawled on earlier, the wreaths on the wall and the figures of the nativity – all these stood as normal as they had done for the last few evenings. How much more terrible, then, in this scene of normality, to see my friend stretched out on the floor, the pristine white of his shirt dyed crimson with his own blood?

"Poirot!" I screamed. I don't recall dropping the stick or leaping to his side, I was just suddenly on my knees beside him, lifting him, cradling him in my arms. He drew a shaky breath, and his dark eyes opened a fraction. "_Mon cher_ Hastings." He whispered, his voice a dry rasp.

"Captain Hastings." Miss Lemon said brokenly from behind me.

"Get the doctor. Now." I ordered without taking my eyes off my friend. I took one of his hands in mine, clutched it. "I'm here, old man." I assured him. "Hold on, the doctor's on his way."

He made a move as though to shake his head. "The desk, _mon ami_."

"The desk?" I repeated blankly. "What about it?"

"The desk!" He said with more force.

Afraid of his agitation, I agreed "The desk. Yes, the desk."

His face moved in what might have been an attempt at a smile. He raised the hand I held to his face, and I felt his lips brush my knuckles as though it was the hand of some young mademoiselle he'd just been presented to. "_Mon cher_ Hastings." He repeated in that breathy whisper. "We have had the good hunting, _mon ami_."

"We will have again." I told him. On some deep subconscious level I knew I was lying; his face had taken on a waxy pallor I'd seen before on the faces of men I'd served with during the war – that look spoke of death. _Don't leave me!_ I thought. I wanted to scream it at him, but I couldn't force the words out, simply held him tightly as though I could somehow hold him to life.

"_Mon cher _Arthur." He whispered; he took a rasping breath…

…And I _felt _the life go out of him with the soft exhalation of that breath.

I'm not sure how long I remained kneeling on the floor holding him before Miss Lemon spoke from behind me. "Captain Hastings, the doctor's here."

I didn't move. I felt, stupidly, that if I continued to hold him it would somehow be alright, this tragedy could be averted. If I let him go, it would all become real.

"Captain Hastings." She repeated firmly. I felt her hand on my shoulder and reluctantly let my friend go. I shuffled back as the doctor took my place at his side, feeling numb, knowing there was nothing he could do.


	3. Chapter 2

"This is a bad business, Captain Hastings." Chief Inspector Japp crumpled the brim of his hat in his hands as he spoke, his voice sombre. The three of us - Japp, Miss Lemon and myself - were standing in Poirot's office. Poirot - I couldn't bring myself to use the term 'Poirot's body' – had been removed earlier. He'd be taken to the morgue and a post-mortem would be carried out later. The doctor, shaking his head regretfully, had known from the first that it was no use, but he'd tried for a few moments to somehow restore life before asking Miss Lemon to telephone 'Mister Poirot's police friend'.

"Yes, it is." I agreed. I felt numb, unable to grasp the reality of what had happened. Poirot was _dead_ – the phrase kept circling in my head, but I couldn't attach any reality to it.

"You say that when you returned you saw a car that might have been a red Austin driving away at speed?"

"It _was _an Austin, Chief Inspector," Miss Lemon said firmly. "I saw the name on the grill catch the lights as it drove by."

"Right. Well, I'll get the boys looking for it. It's a start."

"I suppose you'll want to check the… the crime scene." Miss Lemon said.

"Oh yes. I shall be going over this place with a fine toothcomb." Japp said grimly. "You don't need me to tell you this is a personal matter. I shall be pulling out all the stops for this one."

"Glad to hear it." I said. Poirot's words came back to me. _The desk, mon ami…_ "You might want to check Poirot's desk, Chief Inspector."

"Whatever for?"

I shrugged, unable to answer. "He just seemed to think it was important."

"All right; I intend to have the whole area dusted for fingerprints in any case."

"I suppose that means you want us to leave." Miss Lemon said quietly.

"Just for a while. Do you have somewhere to go for Christmas?"

Christmas; I'd almost forgotten Christmas. "I'm supposed to be staying with my sister's family." Miss Lemon said.

Japp nodded. "What about you, Captain Hastings?" They were both looking at me with… what, concern? Worry that I couldn't take care of myself?

The telephone suddenly shrilled. Miss Lemon looked at us, looked at the telephone on Poirot's desk and then went into her office to answer.

"Captain Hastings?" Japp prompted.

"I can look after myself, Japp." I snapped in a sudden rush of anger.

His eyebrows rose at my unusual temper. "Just as you say." He said stiffly.

I glanced at Miss Lemon's office, saw her shaking her head as she spoke on the phone and then, after putting down the receiver she wiped at her eyes and my conscience promptly savaged me. I shouldn't be picking fights with Japp when Miss Lemon was upset.

I took two steps towards the door, held out a hand to catch Miss Lemon's forearm when she came in. "Are you alright, Miss Lemon?" I asked gently.

She looked up at me, and I felt like an idiot. Of course Miss Lemon wasn't alright; neither of us were just then. For a moment I could see the agonised grief in her eyes, then she seemed to recall Japp was in the room and this wasn't something she would share with anyone else, not even the Chief Inspector. I saw her stiffen, her chin lifting slightly in the defiant way I'd seen before. "I'm well enough, Captain Hastings." She said, but her gentle touch on my arm let me know she understood and appreciated my concern.

"You'll want us to leave soon as possible, I take it." I said. My tone was almost normal, and I saw Japp relax slightly.

"If you don't mind. I'd like us to get started as soon as possible. I'm sorry I have to ask you to leave at all."

I nodded. "Just let me collect a few things from my room. That's alright, isn't it?"

He nodded. "Perfectly, Captain Hastings." He cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed, and asked. "Er – would you like the boys to… clean up, afterwards?" He made a vague gesture at the floor. There was a modest bloodstain where Poirot's body had lain.

I swallowed. "Well, I – I rather think I'd prefer that." I said. "What about you, Miss Lemon?"

I thought she'd gone rather pale. "Oh yes; I'd much rather." She said firmly. She glanced around the room. "I suppose I should be going." She said.

"If you don't mind waiting while I get a few things, I'll give you a lift." I offered. I half expected her to decline, but instead she said "If it's no trouble, Captain Hastings."

"Not at all." I went to the bathroom, removed my shaving kit and glanced around to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything.

Outside Miss Lemon was already reaching for her coat. "Just let me pack a few things, Miss Lemon, and I'll be with you." I promised.

"Would you like me to help you?" She asked.

Normally I would've refused, but instead I surprised myself. "If you don't mind." I said, and saw her brief, terse smile – we were both desperately clinging together to put off the moment when we'd be alone and not able to do anything but think.

The spare room had become mine by default of my staying over so often – Poirot had eventually claimed he was tired of seeing me asleep on the couch (apparently I made the room 'untidy') and had insisted I use the smaller bedroom if I had to. It was a simple, modest room: a single bed (the sheets neatly made; for all my 'untidy ways' my years at Eton had left their mark), a wardrobe, two framed prints on the wall, three books piled on the small bedside table as I was reading all three of them as they fell to hand, a habit that never failed to infuriate Poirot, and an old set of battered golf clubs propped up in a corner – a standard, fairly plain room, but it had said _home_ to me in a way that my own flat never had.

I pulled my old case down from the top of the wardrobe and opened it on the bed, putting my shaving kit in before opening the wardrobe and taking out the first of the suits I had hanging up inside. I passed it to Miss Lemon, who folded it with a neatness that even Poirot would have found acceptable and placed it carefully in the case. I handed her the others, watching in silence as she folded them just as neatly and placed them in the case as well.

"Is there anything else, Captain Hastings?" She asked.

"Just a few things." I removed a few ties and pairs of socks and underwear from a drawer, placing them in the case myself. "I think that's everything." I said, and then stopped as a thought struck me. I pulled open the bottom drawer; this was where I kept my 'mementos' – a collection of odds and ends that had, for whatever reason, come to mean something in my life. Using my handkerchief to ensure I didn't leave any fingerprints, I dug into the back of the drawer and after a moment pulled out my pistol.

"Good heavens." Miss Lemon's eyes went wide at the sight of the gun in my hand. "Where on earth did you get that?" She asked and then shook her head. "Of course, you were a soldier. I take it that's from your time in the army?"

I nodded. "A Webley Mark VI revolver. Standard issue to all army officers." I hefted the gun in my hand. It had been a while since I'd held it, but it still sat comfortably in my hand, and I knew I could still use it if I ever had to. But then, I'd grown up with guns; one of the few times I remembered spending any time with my father was when he was teaching me how to shoot; it was certainly one of the very few times I'd won any praise from him.

A shadow fell across us as Japp peered in through the doorway. His eyes widened very slightly at the sight of the gun in my hands. "Your army pistol, Captain Hastings?" He asked.

"Yes." I nodded. "It just suddenly occurred to me that maybe it might have been used by the murderer." I shrugged. "A stupid idea, I suppose."

"Not at all." Miss Lemon said. "The murderer might have used the revolver and then put it back in the drawer thinking we'd never look there."

"Oh really; it's a bit far-fetched, isn't it?" I objected.

Japp's eyes narrowed. "It'd be a neat trick, though." He noted. "Hiding the weapon right under our noses. Do you mind leaving it here, Captain Hastings? I'll have it checked by ballistics, just to be on the safe side."

"As you like." I gave a shrug, setting it down on the side table. "I suppose we should go." I added rather uncertainly to Miss Lemon.

She nodded. "Yes."

She waited quietly while I pulled on my coat and reached for my hat. "Could I trouble one of you for a key?" Japp asked awkwardly.

I felt in my pocket, but Miss Lemon already had her handbag open. "I shall want them back." She said sternly as she held them out to Japp.

"Of course, Miss Lemon." He said, so meekly that it would've made me smile at any other time.

Either of us could've told him Poirot always kept his keys in the small dish on the middle shelf by his desk, but somehow neither of us could bring ourselves to say – it would've felt wrong if he'd used Poirot's keys, a confirmation of what neither of us wanted to admit just then.

"Well - are you ready, Miss Lemon?" I asked awkwardly, lifting my suitcase.

She nodded. "Quite ready, Captain Hastings."

"Will you let us know what you find, Chief Inspector?" I asked.

There was a pause, and I saw the look of dawning comprehension in his eyes as he realised what I had a few minutes ago – now there was no Poirot for him to ask for help he had no obligation, absolutely none, to tell either of us anything. In fact, it might be more correct for him to tell us nothing. Still, I had a licence as a private detective ("because there is no profession of Watson" Poirot had once said) so Japp could tell me if he wanted to. After a moment he nodded. "I'll keep you informed, Captain Hastings." He promised.

"Thanks, Japp." I said gratefully.

I drew up at the end of the road where Miss Lemon lived. I'd driven her home once before, and even Poirot had never had cause to fault my memory, even as he deplored my "lack of order and method." I'd never actually seen her apartment, but I was sure it'd be neat and tidy. "I can get out here." She said, but for a moment she remained sitting in the car. It had got to the moment when we had to separate, and it was hard. "Take care of yourself, Captain Hastings." She said. "And call me if you need anything."

"I will. You have my phone number, don't you?"

"Of course." She said and I almost smiled at her usual matter of fact tone.

"I – I will see you again, won't I?" I blurted, and cringed at my words, but her expression softened, and I felt her gloved fingertips touch me briefly on the back of the hand.

"Of course you will." She said gently; she almost smiled, but her eyes gleamed with a horrible suggestion of tears.

I nodded; it occurred to me that although I was going back to Poirot's apartment, Miss Lemon might instead be looking for a new position – after all, she had her living to earn. But I couldn't bring myself to ask her about that.

"Well – goodbye, Captain Hastings." She said, opening the car door.

"Goodbye, Miss Lemon. I'll watch until you get inside." I said.

She gave me a slight smile. "Just as you like." She said quietly.

I watched as she walked down the dark street; she paused to wave from the gate, and I raised my hand in response before she walked down the path to her front door.

Back home in my own apartment I dropped my suitcase in the hallway before removing my hat and coat. It occurred to me that there was no one to complain about me leaving my case in the hallway and I felt my throat close with grief as I wished to God there was.

I walked though into the front room without bothering to turn on the lights. It was so quiet that I heard a nearby church clock strike ten when I sagged briefly in the doorway – ten o'clock – only five hours ago I'd been talking about Christmas with Miss Lemon, happy that I'd bought presents that I thought Poirot would approve of.

I ran my fingers over the sideboard, half expecting that my fingers would be coated in dust, but the surface was smooth and clean – there was supposed to be a charwoman who cleaned all the apartments in the block every week; nice to see that she didn't stint on the dusting, even if I seldom stayed in the flat.

Even though I'd shared a drink with Poirot before now, having a scotch or whiskey while he drunk one of his revolting _sirops_, I was mainly a social drinker, so the bottles of scotch in my sideboard were both satisfyingly heavy. Drinking alone had always seemed to me to be a suggestion of a problem, and I seldom indulged. Now seemed like a good time to break all those rules. I pulled a glass out of the sideboard and placed it and my bottles on the table before dropping onto the sofa. I switched on one of the side lamps to shed a small pool of light in the dark room and filled my glass.


	4. Chapter 3

_I was in the trenches, scrambling awkwardly over the mud-slick duckboards. I was a lieutenant, and supposed to set an example to the men around me and never run, even if I was afraid, even if the walls of the trench were starting to collapse and the shells were exploding overhead. I knew that I wasn't going to escape, that one of those shells was going to end me, or I'd be buried by those slipping walls. Buried… my breath hitched in my throat as if I was already being squeezed by the weight of the wet mud. _

_ I saw a familiar figure in front of me, and the sight made me frown – what on earth was Poirot doing here in the trenches? He saw me and smiled as though we weren't in a muddy trench. He started to mince fastidiously across the duckboard towards me. I heard the sounds of an incoming shell growing louder and louder in my ears, and I knew with a sick horror that my friend would be killed by that shell, that even if the shell didn't kill him, the explosion would bring down the mud walls and entomb him alive._

_ "Poirot!" I screamed and ran towards him, forgetting everything about setting an example as I tried desperately to save him but the duckboards had vanished beneath my feet - I was struggling in the mud now and I couldn't run fast enough to get to him, to protect him… _

"Poirot!" I woke up with a start, my own cry still ringing in my ears. I was in my apartment, in my bed. I took a deep breath and sank back onto my sheets. I could feel myself trembling with reaction to that nightmare. I fumbled for my watch, wondering what time it was. It was almost half past ten, and to judge from the dull grey light filtering in through the curtains it was morning. My sheets were damp with sweat, clinging to my body and I peeled myself off the bed with a feeling of disgust. I'd only slept in the end because I'd drunk enough to float the Queen Mary, but even then I'd felt sick rather than drunk at all.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been sitting in my flat. I remember I'd still been sitting watching as the sun rose on Christmas Eve, and I felt sure a couple of days had gone by since, but I'd lost all trace of time. I'd fallen into a small cycle of despair and sat drinking without a trace of drunkenness. I'd passed several meal times but the thought of going into my kitchen and trying to put together some sort of meal made me feel vaguely sick, and I had no desire to eat. I imagined Poirot scoffing if I told him about my lack of appetite; _you, mon ami, having no appetite? Impossible! _And then I would remember that Poirot would never scoff at anything ever again, and I would be wracked with fresh despair. I had only slept when I'd slumped with exhaustion on my sofa or in my bed, and nightmares, usually about Poirot, would bring me jolting awake after a few hours.

_Poirot's dead_. That thought had circled repeatedly in my mind, and yet I was unable to grasp it and understand what it meant. I staggered out of my bed, feeling disgusted at my own behaviour. I pulled on my dressing gown as it was too cold to prowl around without any clothing (usually I wore pyjamas, but I'd been too tired and numb to do more than pull off my clothes and crawl into bed). The scars on my leg throbbed with remembered pain and I limped as I went to the bathroom, and turned on the shower; the leg had healed well enough and it only bothered me on the times when I'd been having a nightmare about the war.

As a young man I'd frequently enjoyed hot baths, but Poirot's flat had a shower and I'd come to appreciate the benefits of one. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and shuddered; even while I'd been exploring the Amazon I hadn't looked quite so bad. I looked too pale, with several days growth of beard, and my sunken, red-rimmed eyes were surrounded by black circles that made my lack of sleep obvious.

I stepped into the shower and let the warm water bring me nearer to an awake and alert state as I scrubbed. The first thing I'd do was shave, and then…

I cocked my head, listening. For a moment I thought I'd heard a key turning in my lock, as unlikely as that sounded. I'd decided I'd imagined it when I heard the front door being closed. The idea that flashed through my mind was that whoever had killed Poirot was coming for me; jumping out of the shower, I grabbed hold of a towel to make an improvised sarong, and bolted out of the room for my bedroom. I'd kept my old service revolver at Poirot's apartment, but not even he had known about the Mauser pistol I'd brought home from the war.

I snatched it from the drawer (there was no need for me to check if it was loaded; there were four rounds in the chamber), and listened intently; I could hear the sounds of movement coming from the front room. I moved stealthily down the hallway. I could feel a mix of sweat and water from the shower dribbling down my spine as I padded towards the front room. My hand flexed nervously around the butt of the gun, then I flung the door open and strode in, saying loudly "All right, stay right there with your hands up!"

There was a woman standing in the middle of the front room. She gave a short scream and dropped the box of cleaning products she was carrying. For a few seconds we remained frozen, staring at each other, and the idea slowly dawned in my brain that I was standing in the centre of my front room, naked save for a towel slung around my hips (which felt in danger of slipping off any second) and pointing a loaded gun at an elderly woman who was undoubtedly the cleaning lady who kept my flat so admirably clean.

She clasped both her hands to her chest with a gasp. "Oh lord, sir, what a shock you gave me!" She said.

I lowered my gun, feeling foolish. "I'm terribly sorry; I thought you were…" what, exactly? A murderer, an assassin? "…an intruder."

She seemed to be recovering from her earlier fright and took a deep steadying breath before giving me a nod. "Oh, that's alright, sir. You weren't to know," she said.

I wondered if she was used to semi-naked men pointing guns at her. I felt my towel slip and tried to tighten the knot holding it closed. As it proved impossible to do with one hand, I put the gun down and used both hands to pull the knot tight. "I'm sorry," I repeated. "I've been… a little tense lately."

"It's no trouble. It's actually nice to see you, sir; you're here so rarely I thought the flat was empty once or twice." She sounded almost cheerful.

"I spend – that is, spent – a lot of time elsewhere." My towel slid a stealthy half-inch again, and I grabbed at it. "I'm sorry, I'm not really dressed for a conversation."

She gave a laugh at that. "Oh, don't you worry about that, sir; I've 'ad three boys, I know what a young man looks like." Her eyes flickered over the bayonet scar on my chest. "Though you look a bit cut up, sir, if you don't mind me saying so. I take it you was in the war."

I felt a flicker of something like irritation; I disliked people even seeing my scars, much less commenting on them. "Yes," I said, rather curtly. I instantly felt ashamed at my behaviour, and added. "I'm Captain Arthur Hastings."

"Pleased to meet you, Captain Hastings. I'm Mrs Carr."

"Pleasure. If you don't mind, I'll go and finish having my shower."

She waved a yellow duster at me. "That's fine, Captain Hastings; I'll get started in the kitchen," she said.

I nodded to her and made sure I put my Mauser back in the drawer before returning to the bathroom. I made a point of shaving carefully (I had a sudden memory of Poirot asking "Why do you not grow the moustache?" when I drew the blade over the hairs growing above my top lip) before dressing in one of the suits I'd brought home from Poirot's flat.

Feeling rather more like myself, I went into the kitchen and made some strong black coffee to help me wake up. The scotch bottles were like an accusation on the coffee table, their mostly empty status only serving to make me feel ashamed. I sipped at my coffee, wincing at the bitterness as I wondered what I should do now. Normally during a case I was eager to pursue a course of action, but right now I could do nothing except wait for Japp to get in touch with whatever information he'd found out.

"I'll be off then, Captain Hastings." Mrs Carr said cheerfully, breaking into my thoughts.

"Alright, Mrs Carr; thank you." A thought occurred to me. "You're very conscientious; it's Boxing Day today, isn't it?"

Her eyes gleamed with humour. "I think you've been celebrating a bit too much, Captain Hastings; it's actually the 27th today."

"Is it? Good lord." I was mildly startled. Had I honestly lost over two days in my numb stupor?

"It was lovely to meet you, Captain Hastings," she said, and bade me farewell again before leaving.

I sat for a while after she'd gone, brooding on my next move. There was no point in calling Japp – if I tried pressing him for information before he was ready or able to give it would probably annoy him, and I needed to keep on his good side for information. I thought of Miss Lemon, and wondered how she was faring. I was sure she hadn't been drinking, and felt another burst of shame over my behaviour as I dug out the telephone number for her sister.

It was picked up after half a dozen rings. "Hello?"

"Hello; could I speak to Miss Lemon, please?"

"Felicity? No, I'm sorry, she isn't here."

"Oh. I thought she was supposed to be staying with you over Christmas."

"I'm sorry, who is this calling, please?"

"Captain Hastings. I'm an associate of Miss Lemon's."

"Yes, I thought it would be someone like that; Felicity's spoken of you before. I'm Florence Hubbard, her sister. She called me late on Christmas Eve and said she had to cancel." Her voice changed. "Captain Hastings, there was a story in the paper that Mister Poirot has been killed, murdered; is it true?"

"I'm afraid so; it was Miss Lemon and I who discovered him."

"Oh Captain Hastings!" There was genuine sympathy in her voice. "Please, go and see Felicity. She gives the impression that she can cope, but I know her; inside she'll be hurting."

"I will." I promised.

"If you want anything, or if she does, don't hesitate to call me." She added.

I thought she must have had the same generous nature as her sister to make such an offer. "I will, and thank you." I said.

After finishing our conversation I made myself some more coffee and tried calling Miss Lemon in her apartment, but she either wasn't there or wasn't picking up. In the end I gave up and wondered what I could do now.

I paced in my flat; I tried to read, but couldn't settle. In the end I knew I had to do something or go completely mad. I still couldn't face the thought of food, so gathered up my hat and coat and left. I had no real idea of a destination, I just had to get out.

* * *

I sat behind a small whiskey in a smoky pub, watching the noisy groups of other people, laughing and talking in their small isolated bands. I felt weirdly detached from everything, as though I was watching some scene from an entirely different world. The whiskey had been sitting before me, untouched, for a good long while – I'd proved to myself that drinking wasn't going to work, and trying to lose myself in a bottle now seemed like a shameful insult to Poirot's memory in any case.

I walked out and wandered aimlessly for hours; London had never seemed as lonely and friendless as it did that night, the streets dark, silent and empty.

After a while I looked up and tried to work out where I was. It took a few minutes, but after a while I recognised some of the houses and realised I was close to Miss Lemon's apartment; my steps had unconsciously turned to perhaps the only other person who was possibly feeling Poirot's death as keenly as I was myself. For a moment I hesitated – it was late, and Miss Lemon was almost certainly in bed – but the thought of another night staring open eyed into the dark decided me.

I rang her doorbell and leaned wearily against the doorframe as I waited. I was just beginning to think that maybe she was asleep and wondering if I should ring again or leave when the door opened a crack. "Captain Hastings." She said in a tone of soft surprise and what I fancied might be pleasure or even some sort of relief. She stepped back, and opened the door. "Come in."

I stepped into the hallway with murmured thanks and stood in silence while my sleep-denied brain tried to think what to say. I turned back to watch Miss Lemon shutting the door. I'd obviously disturbed her sleep – she was wearing a dark dressing gown, with the white cotton of her nightdress showing at the neck – and I was thinking how I'd never seen her like this before, with her hair pulled back in a simple tail and her face free of cosmetics, but then all I saw were the marks of grief on her face, her pale colour and the red-rimmed shadowed eyes that suggested she was sleeping as badly as I was.

I thought: _I was right; she feels Poirot's death as much as I do._ And somehow, seeing that confirmation on her face, the numb disbelief I'd been feeling, the inability to accept my friend's death shattered into a thousand pieces.

_Poirot's dead,_ I thought, and this time I understood the words – I'd never see my friend again, never talk to him or work with him again; he was _gone_. Funny to think that in the end it wasn't the death of a family member or the shattering of my relationship with Bella shortly before our marriage that left me heartbroken, but the death of an eccentric, brilliant foreigner who had become my closest, dearest friend, the one fixed constant in my life when everything else had been in turmoil.

And I _was_ heartbroken; it honestly felt as though something had shattered inside of me. Abruptly I found I was crying, and not with silent tears either, but with harsh, racking sobs that shook me physically, as I hadn't cried since my mother's death years ago. Shameful for a man, perhaps, but I couldn't stop.

"Oh, no, no, no, Captain Hastings!" Miss Lemon exclaimed, hurrying over from the door. It occurred to me that she was probably embarrassed to see me in such a state, and I raised my hands in an attempt to dash the tears from my eyes, but as I looked at her, at the tears welling in her own eyes, it was only understanding and compassion I could see in her face.

"Arthur – please don't cry." She said softly. Arthur? She never called me by my first name, any more than I would call her Felicity. The feel of her hand on my cheek was shocking, her lips pressing against mine in a kiss more shocking still.

For a second, perhaps two, sheer surprise held me motionless, then I was returning her kiss with enthusiasm, wrapping my arms around her. For a fleeting moment I had the confused thought that I'd surely get my face slapped, but then she was leaning willingly into my embrace, the length of her body resting against mine, her arms slipping around my neck.

I can't explain the rush of passion that took us from her hallway to her bed. It wasn't love, it wasn't even lust; if I can explain it at all, it is only by saying it was as a purely physical response to what had happened, the desperate need to feel a physical connection to someone else who understood. At the time however, it needed no explanation. We came together as lovers, and afterwards I held her in my arms and we both slept soundly.


	5. Chapter 4

When I woke up I was on my own, but the space beside me in the bed still held a faint trace of warmth, and there was a lingering hint of what I fancied was a feminine scent in the air. I smiled when I saw that the clothing that I'd left discarded on the floor last night had been folded neatly on a chair. I got up and quickly dressed, ignoring the slightly unpleasant feel of pulling on my dirty clothing.

I found Miss Lemon in her small, neat kitchen. She was wearing a black dress trimmed with red that wouldn't have looked inappropriate in the office, but her hair was hanging in a simple tail, gathered loosely back from her face. She gave me a smile, pushing an errant strand back and I had a sudden vivid memory of winding my hands in the silk of her loosened hair the night before, and gently pulling her head back to trail kisses down her throat and swallowed against a sudden surge of desire.

"Good morning," she said. I expected her to add my name, but she hesitated. I realised that she was unsure what to call me – 'Captain Hastings' would've felt ridiculously formal after last night, but Arthur would've been weirdly intimate. For that matter, should I call her Miss Lemon or Felicity?

"Good morning," I replied, and we shared a slightly embarrassed smile as we recognised our mutual awkwardness.

"I'm making breakfast; there's enough time for you to wash first if you'd like," she said.

"Thanks; I'll do that." I had a quick shower and promised myself a change of clothes as soon as I got home.

Back in the kitchen I could smell bacon and tea, and my stomach growled quietly, reminding me that I hadn't eaten for a while. "Is there anything I can do, Miss Lemon?" I asked. I used her surname automatically, without thinking, and kicked myself mentally for putting our relationship back on a business footing.

"I'm finishing off here. You could set the table if you wouldn't mind," she replied. If she was upset or bothered by me using her surname, she didn't give any sign that I could see, but the faint irritation nagged at me as I obligingly set the table for her and carried the tea set through while she finished off the cooking.

She'd made me a traditional cooked breakfast: bacon, eggs and toast accompanied by tea. She had a soft cloud of scrambled eggs and toast. Afterwards, I leaned back with a sigh of pleasure. "That was marvellous." I said. "Thanks, Miss Lemon."

She smiled. "You're welcome, Captain Hastings."

"I don't think I've had a decent cooked breakfast since we stayed at the Majestic last year." I said.

Miss Lemon smiled. "Well, you can hardly expect Mister Poirot to-" she said, and then stopped herself abruptly.

I poured myself a cup of tea and set down her teapot carefully. I was still grief-stricken about Poirot's death, but after last night the grief was starting to fade to a bareable pain, and anger was taking its place; my friend was dead, murdered in cold blood in his own home. I'd seldom been angry, truly angry, in my life: I'd felt annoyance at Poirot before now, with his teasing and impatient put downs; I'd felt anger that was more than half grief and frustration when my relationship with Bella had shattered so badly, and the anger born out of fear in the trenches that sent you charging through gunfire towards the enemy line, because the only alternative was to curl up into a ball and scream for it all to stop. None of them matched the anger I felt stirring now, a cold black rage that was slowly growing inside me like a spring being wound back to full tension before being released, or like some giant jungle cat tensing itself, preparing to spring.

"Captain Hastings?" Miss Lemon asked. She sounded concerned and I realised I'd been staring silently at her pretty blue teapot for a while.

I lifted my teacup, but my hand shook so badly a third of the tea slopped into the saucer. I carefully set it back down. "I'm going to find the people who did this, Miss Lemon." I said. I could hear my voice as though I was listening to someone else and marvelled at how calm I sounded. "I'm going to find the people who murdered Poirot and if Japp can't get justice then I'll see to it myself." And as I spoke, and listened to my words, I realised that that was exactly what I was going to do.

I was staring fixedly into the middle distance so was startled when I felt something touch my hand. I looked down at Miss Lemon's slim pale hand resting on the back of mine. "No you're not, Captain Hastings." She said firmly. "_We_ are."

I opened my mouth to protest, to tell her that it might be dangerous, but I looked at her fierce, determined expression and reconsidered. She'd loved Poirot as much as I had; did I have any right to deny her vengeance if I was going to seek it myself?

I turned my hand under hers so they were lying loosely clasped palm to palm. "Yes, Miss Lemon; we will." I agreed.

She squeezed my hand slightly. "For Mister Poirot." She said.

"Yes; for Poirot."

* * *

Later, when I was helping her with the washing up the phone rang. Miss Lemon answered and I heard her asking who it was and saying, "No, he's here," before turning to me. "It's Chief Inspector Japp." She said, holding the receiver out to me.

I gave her a nod and took it. "Hello, Chief Inspector."

"I thought you'd be at your flat." Japp grumbled. Much to my relief, it didn't seem to occur to him to ask why I was at Miss Lemon's flat. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know we've finished at Poirot's flat so you can return when you're ready."

"Thanks, Japp. What did you find out?"

I heard the soft shuffling of papers in the background. "No sign of forced entry, so we're assuming they had a key or Poirot must have let them in. Was he expecting anybody? Any guests or clients?"

"Not that he told me. Anything else?"

"No fingerprints; whoever was there must have worn gloves. The autopsy revealed Poirot was shot twice by a small calibre pistol at close range; both shots caused internal bleeding that meant he would've taken about twenty minutes or so to die."

Twenty minutes; if I'd been there… my fingers clenched the handset tightly. "Did Dicker see anyone entering or leaving?" I asked, referring to the concierge of the building.

"No. It was his break, apparently." Japp sounded disgusted.

"Right. And what about the car?"

"We had reports of a red Austin being stolen the same night; we found what looked like the burnt-out remains of the car two days ago."

"That's convenient." I said.

"Isn't it." Japp agreed drily. "Anyway, now we have a death certificate you can go ahead with arranging a date for the funeral if you like." It occurred to me to wonder if it was going to be my job to organise Poirot's funeral – he'd told me a few years ago he'd made a will and left it with his solicitors; maybe they'd be dealing with it? "I've left Miss Lemon's keys at the flat;" he continued, "oh, and your gun's clean too. I just wanted to let you know."

"Thanks, Japp. And I'm sorry about… you know, being a bit sharp with you."

"Water off a duck's back, Captain Hastings. Don't worry about it." He said calmly.

I said goodbye and put the phone down. Miss Lemon looked at me expectantly. "Japp says they've finished their investigation and we can return to Poirot's flat."

"Did they find anything?"

I shook my head. "Not really." I clenched a fist. "Japp said it took Poirot twenty minutes to die." I said heavily. "I should have been there, Miss Lemon. If I'd been there…"

"If you'd been there, Captain Hastings, you'd have been shot too, and I would've found you both," she said quietly. She avoided my eyes as she spoke, and I thought her voice wavered slightly. "And I couldn't have borne that." The last was almost a whisper.

I still felt I should've been with Poirot, and that maybe I could've saved him somehow, but the thought of Miss Lemon having to deal with finding both of us on her own was an appalling one, so I said no more about it.

"Are we going back to Mister Poirot's apartment now?" She asked.

"Well, I am. Are you coming, Miss Lemon?"

"Of course." The familiar assertive note in her voice and the determined way she tilted her chin made me smile.

* * *

We arrived back at Whitehaven Mansions and paused for a moment at the door. Miss Lemon drew a quick breath, and I turned to her, laying a hand on her arm, "Are you alright?" I asked.

She nodded. "I'm alright, Captain Hastings." She said. "It just feels a little strange being back, that's all."

I nodded in understanding. We were both somehow expecting some sort of massive change to the building – it seemed impossible that Poirot could've been murdered and have life in the building carry on as though nothing had happened.

I tensed when we stepped into the vestibule of the building, remembering the last time we'd arrived back at the block. But it wasn't eerily silent and empty today; Dicker was loitering in the vestibule and hurried over. "I'm glad you're back. We've had no end of policemen traipsing backwards and forwards, and that Chief Inspector hanging about and asking everyone questions." From his tone of voice, Japp's questions had irked him.

"Did he ask you anything?" I asked.

"Asked if I'd seen anyone. I told him it was my break and I was entitled to it, wasn't I?" He said defensively.

"Quite." I said curtly. His attitude irritated me, and I took a step towards the stairs. "Well, we have to be going."

"Just ask if you need anything, Captain Hastings. And you, Miss Lemon." He made a gesture almost like a salute and I saw an expression of dislike flicker across Miss Lemon's face.

"Are you alright?" I asked her again, and she nodded.

"It's just Dicker, he always annoys me." She murmured.

We paused for a moment outside the door of 56b and then I used my key. We stepped into the flat and remained standing silently for a moment. There was the faint smell of some detergent in the air, presumably the stuff the police had used to clean the flat after they'd finished. It was silent and had an unpleasant empty feel to it. I glanced at the coat stand and felt a stab of grief at the sight of Poirot's stick with its swan-shaped handle in the stand. There was a small pile of post on the side, presumably placed there by Japp, with Miss Lemon's keys resting on the top.

She picked them up and put them in her handbag while I removed my hat and coat and picked up the pile of mail. "Are you sure you want to deal with all of those, Captain Hastings?" Miss Lemon asked.

"Half each?" I suggested.

We walked into the front room – I was relieved to see the bloodstain had been scrubbed off the rug – and I placed the letters on the sofa to read later and looked at the desk.

"Would you like me to make some tea before we start, Captain Hastings?" Miss Lemon asked.

"That would be nice, Miss Lemon; thank you."

I remained standing in the room while she moved into the kitchen. _The desk, mon ami,_ Poirot had said. I'd start there then.

I sat at his desk (and it felt extremely strange to do that) and considered where to look. I opened the drawers, and started to remove files, as well as a diary for the next year – owing to Poirot's career and his insistence on order, he always bought a diary for the next year early in December, to note any appointments for the following year. I set it carefully to one side and removed the files. The files in the first drawer dealt with recent cases, and I hoped we'd find a clue there. The bottom drawer held files that dealt with older, more complicated cases – many of these I'd chronicled for him and I doubted they'd be much use as to my knowledge they had all been solved - and in any case, Miss Lemon would have all the details necessary in her filing system.

While I was removing files I caught a glimpse of colour and reached for it curiously. It was a photo that showed Poirot, Japp, Miss Lemon and myself on a beach; Japp and Poirot were relaxing in deckchairs, and we all had ice creams. I remembered the day – it was after Poirot had solved the case of young Nick Buckley; she'd claimed that attempts had been made on her life, but in reality it was her cousin Magda who was killed by Nick herself to inherit the fortune that had been left her by her fiancé, Michael Seaton. I knew the photo had been taken – it had been by a local man who made some money from selling copies of the photos he took to the holidaymakers - but I didn't realise Poirot had paid for a copy, much less the more expensive coloured version. I turned it over; _mes cher aimes _was written on the back in Poirot's distinctive handwriting. Poirot had often accused me of being romantic and sentimental, and maybe he was right because at the sight of that inscription, an example of his affection for us all, I felt a lump rise in my throat. I set the photo carefully on the mantelpiece, and decided that no matter what happened to Poirot's belongings, I would try to claim that photo and make sure I framed it.

Once I'd propped up the picture it occurred to me that Miss Lemon had been gone a while, so I headed out into the kitchen to make sure she was all right. I found her wiping at her eyes with a handkerchief while the kettle boiled dry on the hob. I grabbed a tea towel to wrap around the handle before removing it and then turned to Miss Lemon. "Miss Lemon, what is it?" I asked.

She was still dabbing at her eyes. "I'm sorry, Captain Hastings," she said with a sniff, "It's just – I accidentally took down Mister Poirot's tisane mug without thinking and I thought…" I saw her eyes fill with tears again, and her voice trembled. "He's never coming back, is he, Captain Hastings? He's never coming back."

It may have sounded like a stupid question, but I understood – this was the moment of understanding like my own last night, the moment when the heart finally comprehends the messages being sent by the brain: _Poirot is dead_. "No, Miss Lemon, he isn't." I said quietly. She started crying in earnest then and I reached out to pull her close. I thought she'd push me away, but she buried her face in my shoulder and sobbed while I held her in silence and gently stroked her hair.

After a while she stopped and pulled away. "I'm sorry, Captain Hastings. You must think me a terrible fool," she said, avoiding my eyes.

_No more than you thought me last night,_ I thought, but didn't say it; the last thing I wanted to do was cause her any embarrassment or awkwardness. "Not at all," I said sincerely. "Why don't you go through into the other room, Miss Lemon; I'll make the tea."

After she'd gone I boiled the kettle and laid the teapot, cups and milk jug on a tray. I gazed at Poirot's tisane mug for a while and then put it back in its usual place in the cupboard. I wasn't ready to say goodbye any more than Miss Lemon just yet.

* * *

The remains of the tea were stone cold on the tray by the time we'd finished. Our investigation of the files had provided to be fruitless – all the cases detailed had been solved, and where necessary passed on to Japp to execute the sentence of the law.

"So where does that leave us, Captain Hastings?" Miss Lemon asked in a small voice. I'd offered her the chair but she'd refused, and was standing behind me, peering over my shoulder at the files.

"I'm honestly not sure." I admitted, slumping back slightly in the chair in frustration. I was missing something – something that Poirot had tried to tell me, and I wished that just for once I could match the intelligence of my small friend. Irritated, I started to replace the files in the drawer.

Miss Lemon reached over me to pick up the diary. "That's funny; I thought I left that in the office."

"Perhaps Poirot needed it," I suggested, and abruptly sat up straight. Maybe the diary was what he meant. "Are there any entries?" I asked.

Miss Lemon glanced at me, surprised by the urgency in my voice. "No, not yet," she said as she started to flick through it. "Oh – look, Captain Hastings." She laid the diary on the desk in front of me. There in Poirot's handwriting was an appointment on the 4th January. _12:30 – the Belgium Embassy._ That was all, but I drew in a quick breath. "Do you think that's it?" Miss Lemon asked.

I looked up into her expectant expression. "I don't know what else could be." I admitted. I pushed back Poirot's chair. "Would you be able to get the number for the Belgium Embassy, Miss Lemon? And we'll see if they'd be willing to see us instead."

She gave me a smile. "Of course."


	6. Chapter 5

Miss Lemon's efficiency meant that she'd secured an interview with the Belgium ambassador before I'd finished washing up the tea things. With that settled we turned to the pile of mail. Some of the envelopes were marked for Poirot, some for me, some for Miss Lemon or simply 'for attention of' and the address. We took half each and started working through. They were letters and cards of condolence, many from people Poirot had worked for in the past as well as friends. _With regret,_ from Ronald Marsh, otherwise known as Lord Edgware, _With deepest sympathy_ from Lawrence and Cynthia Cavendish. _Will be missed, _from Alexander Cust. There was even a card from Isabel, rather to my surprise, addressed to me: _Thinking of you in this difficult time_. Given the unpleasant circumstances we'd split up in, I was grateful for the thought.

"There's one from Japp here." Miss Lemon said. She held out the card to me: a formal black-bordered card of condolences 'from all at Scotland Yard'. _If you need anything, don't hesitate to call,_ was scrawled on the back in Japp's handwriting.

"Kind of him." I commented. I picked up an official looking letter and tore it open. "This one's from Poirot's solicitors." I said.

"Oh?" Miss Lemon was watching with keen interest as I read aloud:

"Sir, our client, Mister Poirot, had left instructions that we were to send the enclosed letter to you when we received notification of his death. We have therefore obeyed his instructions. With condolences, Charles McNeill, on behalf of McNeill and Hodgeson."

I picked up the attached letter, feeling my heart squeeze slightly at the sight of Poirot's handwriting on the envelope: _For the attention of Captain Arthur Hastings._ There were three carefully folded sheets of paper inside. I started reading the first and then exclaimed "Of all the-!"

"What is it, Captain Hastings?"

"Only Poirot would have the nerve to leave instructions telling me how to arrange his funeral, Miss Lemon!" I exclaimed, half-amused and half-exasperated, as was the case so often with my little friend. Clearing my throat, I read:

"_Mon cher ami,_

_When you read this letter I will be dead, and it may well fall on you to arrange the details of my funeral. I fear that you, mon ami, with your so romantic nature may have some idea of perhaps sending my body back to Belgium. Rest assured, Hastings, that it will content me to lie in the soil of my adopted homeland until the day of judgement. _

_Please, mon cher Hastings, see Father Mallory at the Church of St James and ask him to carry out the service for me; he and I have spoken often and he will know how I would wish it._

_Your friend, _

_Hercule Poirot."_

I flipped through the other sheets of paper. "And here, details of who to invite, what readings he'd like, even what flowers he'd like used to decorate the church, if they're in season." I shook my head as I passed the papers over to her.

Miss Lemon actually gave a small smile. "At least it takes the pressure off of you, Captain Hastings."

"Off of _us_, Miss Lemon." I said firmly. She gave another small smile at that.

I glanced at my watch and got to my feet. "I'll go to the church now. Japp said that now the death's been certified we can arrange a date for the funeral." My voice died for a moment.

Miss Lemon touched me lightly on the arm in sympathy. "I'll go and read through these instructions if you don't mind, Captain Hastings, and start making arrangements. Goodness knows what sort of flowers we'll be able to get at this time of year, but I'll see what I can find. I'll start making a list of attendees too, once you've arranged a date for the funeral."

"Thanks, Miss Lemon." I said gratefully.

* * *

Since moving into Whitehaven Mansions Poirot had attended the church of St James the Redeemer when he could. I had been brought up in the Church of England, but had lapsed in my faith after some of the things I'd seen in the war; it seemed impossible to me then that a benign god could allow such terrible things to happen. I'd asked Poirot once how he could still believe in God after dealing with the worse side of men. He had given me one of his expressive gestures, spreading his hands. "_Mon ami,_ what will you?" He'd asked. "_Le Bon Dieu _gave men free will to do good or evil; is it so surprising then that most have chosen to do evil rather than good? It is always easier to fall than rise, _mon cher_."

There was something almost comforting in the trappings of the Catholic church, the stained glass windows and the life-size Christ nailed onto the cross with his beautiful, suffering face, the nails driven into wrists and ankles with brutal realism. There was a cluster of lit candles in one corner, and a sign above a small box for donations, inviting people to light a candle on behalf of departed loved ones. I was debating lighting one for Poirot, when I heard a voice from behind me. "Can I help you, my son?"

I turned to meet the kind, gentle blue eyes of an old man in a priest's clothing. "Oh, hello. Possibly you can. I'm Arthur Hastings; my friend Hercule Poirot used to worship here."

"Oh yes." An expression of sorrow crossed his face. "Mister Poirot mentioned you more than once, Captain Hastings. I said a mass for him when I heard he'd died."

"That was kind of you, father, thank you. I was wondering if we could hold Poirot's funeral here."

"We would be honoured. But would he not rather be buried in Belgium?"

I almost gave a smile at his words. "No; Poirot left instructions that his funeral should be held here."

The priest gave me a gentle smile. "Then we shall be happy to fulfil his wishes. When do you wish the funeral to be held?"

After some discussion we managed to settle on holding the funeral in ten days time – longer than I would've liked, but it would at least give Miss Lemon and I time to arrange the funeral to Poirot's exacting standards, including inviting some of the more distant guests. "Thank you, father." I said at last, when I stood up to go. "I'll contact you with more details closer to the time."

"It'll be a pleasure, Captain Hastings. God go with you, my son."

I turned to the candles after he'd gone, remembering my earlier consideration about lighting one for Poirot. After a while I turned away; I'd light one after I'd avenged Poirot's murder.

* * *

The next few days were spent arranging the details of the funeral, registering the death and finalising details of the service with Father Mallory. The priest has evidently spent enough time with Poirot to be well acquainted with his passion for 'order and method' – he accepted my detailed lists of how the service should be conducted with a gentle smile of patient acceptance. It did occur to me from time to time to wonder how much this was going to cost, but I was determined that my friend would have the funeral he desired, regardless of how badly it crippled my modest savings. If I had to go without for a time, then so be it.

Miss Lemon proved as invaluable as ever during this time. She sent out invitations, and even managed to find a florist who assured her they could find a hothouse gardener who could provide a wreath of Hercule Poirot roses for us, despite the time of year. To be honest, I was grateful for the distraction of the arrangements; Japp was presumably busy investigating the case, but he didn't contact me, and I didn't want to annoy him by pestering him for information, even though I was tempted to call him at least a dozen times a day.

By unspoken agreement we were continuing to meet every day in Poirot's apartment. I think we both felt more comfortable there than meeting anywhere else. It was something of a neutral space, an area where we'd always met as friends and colleagues; meeting at either my or Miss Lemon's apartment would've felt too personal and intimate. That's not to say I regretted the night I'd spent at her flat, far from it. I found myself having flashbacks of small details I wasn't sure I'd even noticed at the time, and while I occasionally dared to hope our friendship might develop into something closer I felt that now, with Poirot's funeral to plan and his murder to avenge, was hardly the right time. Annoyingly, while I'd always been able to talk candidly with Miss Lemon whenever I considered asking her how she felt about any possible future relationship, I became as awkward and abashed as a schoolboy. So I held my tongue and tried to push it to the back of my mind for the time being, occasionally cursing myself for a coward.

Four days before the funeral Miss Lemon called to me from her office. "Captain Hastings, it's Charles McNeill from McNeill and Hodgson. He'd like to speak to you."

I remembered the name as being from Poirot's firm of solicitors. I wondered what he wanted. "Thanks, Miss Lemon. Please put him through."

"Captain Hastings?" The voice was cool and unemotional. "I'm Charles McNeill, from McNeill and Hodgson, solicitors for the late Mister Poirot."

I barely resisted the urge to tell him I knew who he was. "Yes, Mister McNeill. What can I do for you?"

"I'm just calling to inquire as to whether you have a bill for the funeral expenses yet, Captain Hastings?"

"I'm sorry?"

"A bill, Captain Hastings. Mister Poirot left instructions that we were to cover the costs of his funeral from his estate. The sooner you can let us know the total, the sooner we can set the wheels in motion. Which brings me to my second point, the reading of the will. We require yourself, Miss Lemon and Chief Inspector Japp to be present. When would be convenient?"

Somewhat staggered by his news, I suggested meeting the day after the funeral at one o'clock. Meeting in Poirot's flat to hear what would happen to his things would've felt strange at best, so I suggested we meet at their offices. He agreed to this and rung off.

As I felt I now had an acceptable excuse, I went into Miss Lemon's office. "I just want to call Japp," I explained in answer to her enquiring look.

"I thought you were waiting so as not to irritate him."

"Nothing to do with that, Miss Lemon. Mister McNeill wanted to arrange a date for the reading of Poirot's will. We agreed on the day after the funeral. He'd like us to attend as well." I added as I dialled the number.

"Oh. Aren't you the appointed executor of Mister Poirot's will, Captain Hastings?"

I shrugged. "I was. Three or four years ago Poirot told me he'd changed his mind." I remembered how what I'd perceived as the slight snubbing at that action had stung me at the time. I assumed it was because Poirot had doubted my ability to arrange his estate according to his instructions, just as he had left detailed instructions concerning his funeral.

The phone was picked up at the other end. "Japp here."

"Hello, Japp. It's Hastings."

"Ah." I wasn't sure if the note of reserve I thought I heard in Japp's voice was real or imagined. "Yes, Captain Hastings."

"I just received a phone call from Poirot's solicitors. They'd like us all to be in attendance when they read Poirot's will. I've arranged it for one o'clock on the day after the funeral at their offices."

"Right. I'll be there." Japp promised in a slightly more friendly tone of voice.

"Thanks. And do you have any…news?" I asked, unable to help myself.

"I'll let you know when I have something definite, Captain Hastings." He said curtly. I decided not to press him and hung up after a murmured goodbye.

"Have you told Japp we're visiting the Belgium Embassy tomorrow?" Miss Lemon asked.

"No. It must have slipped my mind, Miss Lemon." I said blandly.

Her eyes gleamed with amusement – she knew that I rarely 'forgot' anything. "I don't know if Japp would be happy with your forgetfulness, Captain Hastings."

I couldn't hold back a smile. "I'll let him know when I have something definite."

Miss Lemon had clearly been close enough to hear Japp's side of the conversation because she gave a genuine smile of amusement at my words.


	7. Chapter 6

"Captain Hastings and Miss Lemon to see you, ambassador." The secretary announced as we were ushered into the ambassador's office. The ambassador, Henri Janssens, was a slight, rather florid-faced man of middle age. He had stood up from behind his desk when we were shown in, and now moved to shake our hands, a warm smile on his face.

"Welcome, welcome to you both." He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. "Sit, please. Can I offer you any refreshements?"

We both politely refused his offer and he re-took his seat facing us. "Thank you for agreeing to see us, ambassador."

He gave a slight, strained smile. "I was glad to do so, Captain Hastings. I take it you have gathered that my desire to see Monsieur Poirot was more than a simple wish to see another of my countrymen, even one as distinguished as he undoubtedly was."

"We thought so. Could you tell us what you contacted him for?"

A troubled expression crossed his face and he leaned forward, lacing his hands together on his desk. "I am telling you this because I know you both worked with Monsieur Poirot, so I trust I can rely on your discretion." He said gravely. "You may be aware that our air force currently consists mostly of Breguet 19 planes from France, but we have been looking into building our own military aircraft – you understand that the new chancellor in Germany is making us nervous. None of us wish to see another war in Europe, but if it comes, we are anxious to be able to defend ourselves in the air. We have been working with some of your British engineers to develop our own planes, and have acquired some modest successes." He frowned. "But it seems that we have a spy passing on secrets – your government has discovered that information that can only have come from our research has been offered for sale to other parties, although they were unable to discover who the perpetrator could be."

"If you were working with our engineers, isn't this informer just as likely to be British?" Miss Lemon asked.

He shook his head with a sigh. "No, the information related to the new metal compounds we have been investigating. This is research that was being solely undertaken by us Belgians." He spread his hands on his desk. "We must uncover this traitor, and quickly; the work has stalled and will not be continued until this leak has been plugged, as you would say. I was hoping Monsieur Poirot would be able to uncover this spy for me. It seems that I must ask you to work in his stead. You must understand that this whole affair is to be kept quiet, otherwise I should have secured the services of your Scotland Yard already."

"Monsieur Janssens," I said in a tightly constricted voice, "is it possible that the spy discovered that you requested Poirot to investigate this crime for you and murdered him?"

He met my eyes steadily. "I fear it is only too possible, Captain Hastings." He said sombrely. "I contacted him late on the 22nd of December to arrange a meeting, and confirmed the time early the next morning, both too late and too early for any of my staff to have overheard the conversation, I thought. But if they were listening at the door, or looked through my diary…" He made a helpless gesture, spreading his hands. "I can only regret now that I was not even more discreet. We can ill afford to lose a man like Monsieur Poirot."

His words only made me feel more pain and anger than I already did – Poirot had been hired and murdered within a few hours, and it seemed as though bad luck had had a large part to play in that. If the ambassador had rung up during the day, or if Miss Lemon and I had been in the office when the murderer had arrived, or if Dicker had seen them enter the building…

"Do you have any idea who it could have been?" Miss Lemon asked. She would've sounded perfectly calm to someone who didn't know her well, but I could detect the slight tremor of grief in her voice, and suspected her thoughts were similar to my own.

"I've narrowed it down to three people." He removed a sheet of paper from the folder in front of him and pushed it across his desk towards us. "These are the only people who have had access to the files and the chance to steal the information."

I leaned forward to study the names: Hugo Duvale, Michiel Boulet and Vincent Peeters, all neatly written with their job title and address printed underneath. "They don't live here at the embassy?" I asked.

"No, we all have private accommodation. Otherwise, the temptation to work around the clock…" He spread his hands in an expressive gesture, rather like Poirot. "Hugo, my secretary, you have already met," he continued, "I have told the others to make themselves at your disposal if you wish to question them."

"Thank you. With your permission we'll do that now." I glanced across at Miss Lemon as I spoke and she gave a very slight nod at my words. I reached for the sheet of paper. "Do you mind if I keep this for now?"

"Of course not. I hope you manage to find our mole, Captain Hastings."

* * *

"Have long have you worked at the Belgian embassy?"

"Over eight years now." Hugo Duvale smiled as he spoke. He was a brown haired, brown eyed young man with an easy smile. "I started as an under-secretary, and worked my way up to my current position as Monsieur Janssens personal secretary."

"What do your duties involve?" Miss Lemon asked.

He gave a slight shrug. "I keep the ambassador's diary, book appointments for people that have a reason to see him, sort his mail and send standard replies to some letters. Not that I do the typing myself, these days." He smiled again.

"You make the ambassador's appointments. Were you aware he'd made an appointment to see Hercule Poirot?" I asked. I was watching him closely as I spoke.

His smile faded. "My God, you mean the private detective who was murdered recently? No, I had no idea." He gazed at us both with a sombre expression. "No, I'm sorry to hear that. Was there a reason for his appointment?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say." I said.

He nodded. "Of course. I understand."

I glanced at Miss Lemon to see if she wanted to ask him anything. She shook her head. "Thank you for your time, Mister Duvale. Could you send Mister Boulet in please?"

"Of course."

* * *

"I serve as one of the staff under the science attaché." Michiel Boulet said quietly. He was a grave young man, rather pale, with dark eyes that reminded me of Poirot.

"I understand you were involved with the work you were carrying out with the British scientists." I said.

He nodded. "Yes; I acted as the go-between between the British and Belgian scientists." He gave a quick, nervous smile. "I think they thought I had a special understanding of British culture as I've lived here for over twelve years now. I'm afraid my knowledge of the science itself is virtually non-existent."

"Were you aware the ambassador had made an appointment to see Hercule Poirot?"

His already pale face seemed to whiten further. "The detective? No, he never said, although I might have guessed…"

"What do you mean, you might have guessed?" I asked quickly.

"Well, it was obvious something was wrong." He stammered. "I mean, the work just suddenly stopped. Clearly-" he stopped, and his dark eyes widened. "Oh my God – he was killed, wasn't he? And you – you must think one of us-" His voice trailed off for a second and then he shook his head. "But this is horrible, just – I had nothing to do with it, Captain Hastings, I swear!"

There was a real note of panic in his voice. "Calm down, Mister Boulet, no one's saying you did." Miss Lemon said soothingly. "We're just making general enquiries, that's all. No one's accusing you of anything."

"I'm sorry, it's just such a horrible thought." He took a deep breath, apparently steadying himself. "Is there anything else you need to know?"

"No, I don't think so. Please ask Mister Peeters to see us."

* * *

"I'm officially one of the staff of the cultural attaché." Mister Peeters' dark blue eyes twinkled as he spoke. "Ordinarily I'd be rather coy, but Monsieur Ambassador has told me to be absolutely frank with you. I have also done some intelligence work in the past. No spying here, of course – at the moment we are the very best of friends, the British and the Belgians."

"Then you know about the work being undertaken by your scientists." Miss Lemon said.

He gave a slight smile. "Of course, my dear lady. I make sure I'm kept up to date with such things."

"What does your job involve?" I asked, rather curtly.

"Officially, I'm an artist. Rather the black sheep of the family I'm afraid." He flashed another of his smiles at Miss Lemon, which I didn't like at all. "My job is to promote the culture of Belgium through my work."

"You speak surprisingly good English for a black sheep," she responded with a smile of her own.

"My mother was English. I was brought up in Belgium, but grew up speaking English as well as French. And Dutch, as well as a little German."

"Were you aware the ambassador had requested Hercule Poirot to see him?" I asked.

For a moment something cold flashed behind his eyes. "Did he, though?" He asked softly and then looked up at me. "No, Captain Hastings, I did not know that, but it would explain why the atmosphere here has been so charged lately. And perhaps why he was killed. You are looking for his murderer, aren't you?"

"Yes." I gave a single short nod.

He nodded. "Then I hope you find him, Captain Hastings." He said, still in that soft, dangerous voice. "I really hope you find him."

* * *

"Which of them do you think is responsible, Captain Hastings?" Miss Lemon asked me as we left the embassy.

"I'm really not sure, Miss Lemon." I considered for a long moment. "Michiel Boulet seemed the most nervous, so that might make him an obvious suspect, but…"

"But he might be _too_ obvious a suspect." Miss Lemon concluded.

I nodded, thinking about the other two suspects. "Of course, if Vincent Peeters really has done some sort of secret intelligence work, then he might have been taught how to conceal his true feelings." I wondered privately if I wanted him to be guilty because I hadn't liked the way he'd looked at Miss Lemon and felt ashamed of the pettiness of the thought.

"But he seemed genuine when he said he hoped you'd find Mister Poirot's murderer." Miss Lemon pointed out. I was unable to deny that.

"What about Hugo Duvale? As the ambassador's secretary he could be best placed to find any private information." I suggested.

"Yes, but would he know what paperwork would be most valuable to offer to others?" Miss Lemon asked.

"That brings us back to Michiel Boulet. But he claimed he didn't know anything about science."

"He could have been lying."

I nodded at her words, but didn't answer. I thought of Boulet's frightened dark eyes and sighed. "Maybe we should turn this information over to Japp, Miss Lemon." I said at last.

Her eyes widened in surprise. "It's not like you to give up, Captain Hastings."

"I know, but the fact is we really need to find those papers or the gun to have any proof against anyone, and Japp could arrange for a search warrant whereas I can't. All I have is what people say, and I'm not Poirot to make miraculous deductions based on a few words." It was painful to make the admission, but finding the culprit was more important than pandering to my own ego.

"We'll be seeing Japp at the funeral; why don't you leave it until then, and speak to him if you still have no clear ideas?" Miss Lemon suggested.

It was a typically sensible idea, so I nodded. "I'll do that, Miss Lemon." I agreed.


	8. Chapter 7

It was a cold, drizzly day. Fit weather for a funeral, really. I'd never been keen on wearing sombre black and usually opted for dark charcoal grey, but Poirot's death demanded black – black suit and black tie, with my old matching cufflinks of lacquered black. I was carefully knotting my tie when Miss Lemon knocked on the bathroom door. "Captain Hastings? The car's here."

"I'll be there in a moment, Miss Lemon." I called back. I reached for my cufflinks, and managed to drop one on the floor. I heard a crack and when I picked it up half the front fell off in my hand. I sagged briefly against the wall. _Wonderful._ Now what was I supposed to do? Arrive at my dearest friend's funeral in broken cufflinks?

I opened the door. Miss Lemon, properly dressed in a black dress with a matching hat and gloves, looked at me curiously. "Are you all right, Captain Hastings?"

"Of all the accursed luck, Miss Lemon; I've actually broken my cufflinks."

"Why don't you wear those ones you brought for Mister Poirot?" She suggested.

For a moment the thought gave me pain – the cufflinks I'd brought on the 23rd, when I'd been happy, anticipating a pleasant Christmas with Poirot… I took a deep breath. "I could do that, Miss Lemon. I think they're in the box room, aren't they?" I'd taken the presents I'd brought and put them all in the box room to deal with later, when I felt more up to it and hadn't yet done anything with them.

"I moved them into my office. I'll get them for you now."

I waited and took them from her with murmured thanks. Two small silver circles, set with onyx; elegant and stylish I'd thought at the time, perfect for Poirot. I tried to fit the first one, and found my fingers were shaking too badly. I let out a hiss of frustration.

"You're all fingers and thumbs, Captain Hastings. Let me." Miss Lemon took the cufflinks from me, deftly fastening first one then the other.

"Thanks, Miss Lemon. Just one thing – is my tie in the centre? Poirot would never forgive me if I turned up to his funeral in a crooked tie."

She half-raised a hand as though to correct it, and then smiled and let her hand drop. "It's fine, Captain Hastings."

* * *

We were in the first car after the hearse and arrived at the church with a modest procession of dark cars following us. Japp, looking unfamiliar in a smart dark suit, got out of one of the cars and came over to shake hands with both of us. "Miss Lemon, Captain Hastings." He greeted sombrely. "I never thought we'd see this day."

"No. It's a bad business." I agreed.

"How's the investigation going, Chief Inspector?" Miss Lemon asked.

"It's still early days, Miss Lemon." Japp said stiffly, which I took to mean that he had no leads, and no one to help him solve this one either. By the look on Miss Lemon's face, she thought the same.

Father Mallory stepped out of the door, his face sombre, and I remembered he was Poirot's friend as well as his priest. I felt a stab of pain as the simple polished oak coffin was removed from the hearse. Japp and I had both been asked if we'd like to be among the pallbearers, but had declined. I couldn't bear the thought of actually carrying the coffin bearing my friend's remains; I wanted to remember his life, not his death. Rather to my surprise, four of Japp's men had volunteered for the role and were wearing appropriately grave expressions as they carried the solemn burden into the church, the rest of us following after.

As Poirot had no family living in the country, Miss Lemon and I were occupying the first pew in the church. I glanced around as other people followed us in: Japp, with several of the police (some in full uniform) was behind us; I could see John and Mary Cavendish, Colonel Race and his son, the novelist Ariadne Oliver (who was sniffling into a handkerchief, and would do so throughout the service) and Florence Hubbard, Miss Lemon's sister. There was also a grave, serious looking woman with dark hair accompanied by a fair-haired man, neither of whom I recognised. "That's Katerina Reiger, the Russian girl Mister Poirot helped. She called me to ask if she could attend and I couldn't say no." Miss Lemon whispered. After a moment I recalled that I hadn't take any part in the case due to my 'hayfever' - actually a response to the scent Poirot had been wearing for a few days until he'd given up in disgust at my reaction. My attention was taken by a lady dressed all in black, including a fine black lace veil that covered her face. I caught a flash of her eyes as she glanced at me and I realised with a shock that it was the Russian Countess Vera Rossakoff, rumoured to be a notorious jewel thief and the only woman I'd even seen Poirot come close to losing his head over. I heard Japp mutter "Well I'll be blowed," from behind me as he recognised her.

The service started with a prayer, and then a hymn. I mouthed the words, but I couldn't concentrate on the proceedings; all I could think was that this was the absolute _end,_ not only of Poirot's life, but of everything that we'd shared. For all I knew, Miss Lemon might soon be looking for a new position – she had her living to make after all, just as I did. The thought that we might soon be forced to part was as painful as losing Poirot, maybe even more so. I glanced over at her and was surprised to see tears running down her face as she cried silently. I reached out to touch the cool silk covering her hand, reassuring her that I was here, and although she never looked around I felt her fingers slide into mine, gripping them almost tightly. I squeezed her fingers in response and her grip loosened a little, though neither of us made any attempt to pull away until the service ended and the coffin was carried outside into the graveyard.

This was the moment I had dreaded – the interment of the coffin. Miss Lemon laid a single pink Hercule Poirot rose on top of the coffin before they started lowering it carefully into the earth. I forced myself to stand and watch in silence as expected, even though it felt almost like a physical pain to watch. I was perversely grateful that I'd had my breakdown at Miss Lemon's apartment that night; I don't think I would've been able to get through this otherwise. I stepped forward to throw the first handful of earth into the grave, stepping back as Japp moved to throw the second. _"Au revoir, mon cher ami,"_ I whispered, and felt Miss Lemon's hand grip my arm in shared grief.

When the other mourners started drifting away I lingered by the grave for an instant, knowing that I had to leave but finding it difficult to make this final parting. I heard a voice speak from behind me. "Captain Hastings?"

The rich voice with its exotic accent told me who was speaking, so I turned and bowed politely. "Countess Rosakoff. A pleasure."

"Really?" Her voice was cool and sardonic. She had raised her veil; her face was just as serene and enigmatic as it had been when I'd first seen her, though the half-smile was missing from her lips. Her gaze shifted off mine briefly, moving over my shoulder to the newly dug grave. "Do you seek vengeance, Captain?" She asked. "Do you wish to exact revenge on those who murdered your friend?"

The breath caught briefly in my throat. "Yes." I grated out the single word.

Her cool, appraising glance rested on me once more. She studied me in silence, then nodded. "So. Then I suggest you look for Stephen Allerton, Captain Hastings. I think he may have an interesting story to tell you."

She turned away. "Countess!" I called out at her back. My heart was pounding. "Did you know Poirot was to be killed?"

She glanced back at me over her shoulder. "No, I did not. Had I known, I would never have permitted it. Goodbye, Captain Hastings, we will not meet again."

She walked away, leaving me standing there. My fists clenched. _Stephen Allerton. _I would ask Miss Lemon to search her filing system once we got back to Poirot's apartment.

* * *

A couple of the congregation who had been friends of Poirot's had arranged for a wake in a small community hall nearby. I usually had a healthy appetite, but I had no interest in the proffered sandwiches and cakes and politely refused any offers. I sipped a cup of tea with a slow burning impatience, anxious to leave to investigate the information the countess had provided.

But first there were the condolences from everyone gathered to get through. I greeted John and Mary Cavendish with some pleasure, not having seen them for some years. They were so obviously in love that I couldn't help but smile, remembering how close their relationship had come to floundering when Poirot solved that murder at Styles so long ago. Mary took my hand in both of hers with a warm, if sad smile, and John passed on Lawrence and Cynthia's apologies for their absence, but they were living in South America and had been unable to arrange a trip to England in time for the funeral, particularly now they had a family of their own. Japp and his men shook hands, Japp reminding me again that 'if you need anything, Captain Hastings, you know where to find me.' I doubted Japp would be able to help unless he turned up some evidence of Poirot's killer, but the offer was genuinely meant and I thanked him, reminding him of the reading of the will to follow and he nodded, promising he'd be there. I held my tongue about what we'd previously discovered, telling myself I could always pass the information on to Japp later if necessary. Mrs Hubbard, who I hardly knew, gave me a warm hug and thanked me for 'looking after Felicity.' I couldn't imagine anyone 'looking after' Miss Lemon, but told her we were taking care of each other, which made her smile.

After Mrs Hubbard had left I asked Miss Lemon if she wanted to leave. It seemed she was of the same mind as I was; she agreed with what I thought was a certain amount of relief, and after thanking the ladies for arranging the wake, we took a taxi back to Poirot's apartment.

* * *

"Did you tell Japp what we'd discovered?" Miss Lemon asked.

I shook my head. "No. I actually got some information from the Countess Rosakoff."

Miss Lemon drew in a sharp breath at the Countess' name. "What did she say?"

"To talk to someone called Stephen Allerton. Do you know the name?"

She frowned in thought. "Not off hand, but the name is familiar. I'll check in my files."

I made tea in the kitchen while Miss Lemon searched her records. I wondered as I set out the cups and saucers if Poirot had made provision in his will for minor items like the tea service. Probably; I couldn't imagine him overlooking anything, and I was reminded of the photograph I'd propped up on the mantelpiece. If that had been left to someone else, I'd be genuinely sorry. Surely if Miss Lemon or Japp inherited it I could ask for a copy.

"I've found it, Captain Hastings," Miss Lemon said in a tone of satisfaction when I carried the tea tray into the other room.

I smiled. "I never doubted you would." I told her sincerely. I poured tea and then reached for a biscuit; now we were back on the murderer's trail my appetite had returned.

"Stephen Allerton was involved in a case of stolen jewellery; a criminal gang were trying to pass the gems through a jeweller's in Hatton Garden as legitimate stones. Mister Poirot foiled the plot and the criminals, including several shop staff, were arrested."

"I don't remember that case." I said.

Miss Lemon reached for her tea. "You were in South America at the time, and you know Mister Poirot; he didn't consider it an important enough case to mention later."

I smiled at that. "So if Stephen Allerton was imprisoned because of Poirot, then it makes sense that he might seek revenge now." I said. "Maybe this embassy business was just a coincidence."

Miss Lemon shook her head, a slight frown between her brows. "That's just the thing, Captain Hastings – Stephen Allerton wasn't part of the plot. In fact, he was the staff member who alerted Poirot to the scam in the first place."

I sat for a while, frowning. "But if he gave information to Poirot, it makes no sense that he'd wish him ill now." I said. "Am I missing something, Miss Lemon?"

She shrugged. "I can't see any reasons either, Captain Hastings."

"No. But then why would the Countess mention him?"

"To cause mischief, maybe." Miss Lemon suggested.

"No, not with Poirot's death." I said firmly. Whatever her relationship had been with my friend, she had cared for him, I was sure of that. I glanced at my watch. "I imagine the shop will be closed now, but as I'm sure you have the address we could call in and see him on the way to the solicitor's tomorrow."


	9. Chapter 8

It wasn't far to the solicitor's office, but the trip to Hatton Garden added enough to the distance that I felt justified in using the Lagonda. In any case, after a few days of remaining in the same area of London, driving even a reasonably short distance was enough to make me feel like I was being offered something of an escape.

I glanced at my watch as we pulled up near the jeweller's shop where the apparently law-abiding Mr Allerton worked. We had twenty minutes or so to complete our journey, more than enough time. "That's him, behind the counter." Miss Lemon said as we both looked into the store.

"Right. Thanks, Miss Lemon." I jumped out of the car.

"Would you like me to come with you?" She asked.

I gave her a quick smile at her words. "I'm only going to ask for a meeting with him at his home after work, Miss Lemon." I assured her.

The bells above the door tinkled cheerfully as I entered. He looked up with the expression of polite, friendly helpfulness common to many shop staff. I studied him thoughtfully as I took the three or four paces to the counter. He was a presentable looking young man with neat light brown hair and grey eyes, pleasant looking without being particularly distinctive. To my eye he looked like a friendly, honest young man, but I reminded myself that my first impressions were frequently wrong, as Poirot always seem to delight in telling me, and I shouldn't be too surprised if they proved to be so this time. I couldn't risk letting any chance of apprehending Poirot's killer go because of any mistaken impressions I formed.

"Good morning, sir. Can I help you?" He asked. There was the hint of an accent under his polished shop voice – West Country, I thought.

"I hope so. You're Stephen Allerton, aren't you?"

"That's right." A hint of still-friendly puzzlement had crept into his voice.

"I'm Captain Hastings. I work – used to work, I should say – with Hercule Poirot. I've received information that you might know something about his murder."

I was watching him closely, and thought he turned slightly pale. "Me? Who told you that?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. But I would like to ask you a few questions."

He glanced at the door marked 'staff only' behind him; I guessed that there were other staff in the office and he was worried about them coming into the shop unexpectedly. "Uh – Captain Hastings, I really can't talk now," he began, stumbling slightly.

"No, no, of course I can see that." I assured him. "In fact, I was hoping I could visit you after you finish work."

"Tonight?" He hesitated.

"If it's no trouble."

He wavered for a few more seconds, chewing on his lower lip, then gave a single, jerky nod of agreement; I guessed that he was reluctant to make an appointment for the same day, but was afraid that refusing would make him look as though he had something to hide. "Yes, all right, Captain Hastings," he said. He reached for a notepad on the counter by the till and scribbled a few words on it before tearing it off and thrusting it at me. "This is my address; I should be home by about six tonight, but am expecting company, so would ask that you don't stay overly long."

"I shan't." I gave him a polite smile before I turned away.

"Captain Hastings." He called after me; I glanced back at him. "I was genuinely sorry to hear about Mister Poirot's death. He struck me as a good man."

"Yes, he was." I agreed.

* * *

The solicitor was a neat, dark young man with round glasses that gave him a studious air. He introduced himself as Charles McNeill, the junior partner in the firm. He set his folder down on the table, opening it with a rustle of paper that seemed loud in the oppressive quiet of the bland room Japp, Miss Lemon and myself were sitting in. "Thank you all for coming," he said, as he removed a sheaf of papers. "I understand this may be a difficult time for you all."

I privately doubted that he understood at all, with his cool, dry voice. He cleared his throat. "I trust that you understand the terms of the law that I will be using. If something is unexplained, please ask."

His gaze went back to the papers as he read:

"'This is the last will and testament of Hercule Poirot. I direct that all my expenses should be paid, and I appoint Mr Charles McNeill as my executor.'" He looked up briefly. "There are a few small bequests and donations to charities that I need not go into here. I propose to skip to the part that concerns you." He cleared his throat again. "'To my friend Chief Inspector James Harold Japp I leave the sum of one thousand pounds.'" An expression of some sort crossed Japp's face before he bowed his head; I think he was overcome at that moment and felt some sympathy for him.

"'To my faithful secretary Miss Felicity Lemon I leave the sum of three thousand pounds and the pieces of my mother's jewellery that she so admired.' The will lists the pieces here: one bracelet of silver, set with-"

"I know the pieces he means." Miss Lemon said quietly. She sounded subdued, upset, and I reached out to squeeze her fingers gently with mine. She gave me a faint smile, and returned the pressure.

The solicitor found his place in the will and continued "'...and to my dear friend Captain Arthur Hastings, in recognition of the years of friendship and loyalty he has given me, I leave everything else of which I die possessed.'"

There was a moment of silence. I'd been thinking that Poirot would've used the term _'mon cher ami'_ and I was wishing they'd left it untranslated because I much preferred it, so it took a while for me to realise what he'd actually said. "Me? Poirot left everything to _me_?" I asked in disbelief.

"Yes, saving these few other bequests. It's set down quite clearly, Captain Hastings. There is also an instruction to give you this." He handed over an envelope; I saw my name written in Poirot's distinctive hand on the front and for a confused moment wondered if it would be another list of instructions.

Still slightly bewildered I stammered "But what – I mean – I don't even know-"

"I think he's trying to ask how much it comes to." Japp said drily.

The young man considered. "After taking death duties and the other bequests into account, I should say it comes to a sum of a little over £40,000."

After a moment of shocked silence I heard Japp laugh and say, "Good for you, Captain Hastings," sounding genuinely pleased.

"Good lord." I murmured.

The young solicitor shut his folder with another rustle of paper. "Well, I must be going. Captain Hastings, you have my condolences. If we can be of any more help to you, then feel free to contact us." He gave me a nod and left.

Japp cleared his throat. "I should make a move too. I'll expect I'll see you soon, Captain Hastings, Miss Lemon."

"Goodbye, Chief Inspector." Miss Lemon said. I was still too stunned to speak. After a while Miss Lemon asked quietly "Would you like me to leave before you open that?"

Her words broke through my daze, and I shook my head. "No, please stay." I drew my hand away to open the letter. It wasn't a set of instructions as I'd imagined, just a simple short letter; glancing at the date I saw it'd been written three years ago.

_ Mon cher ami Hastings,_

_ I have left instructions that you are to be given this letter at the reading of my will. I fear that you, mon cher, with your so beautiful nature will be stunned and staggered by what I am leaving you. You may even fling up your hands and cry 'This is too much!' If these thoughts plague you, then I beg that you now dispel them._

_ Since we first met, mon ami, you have been the truest, the most dear of friends (and here you would correct me and say 'dearest' is the word I should write, would you not?); the most loyal of dogs, I may say, and so gain your displeasure. If such words have ever caused you the least feelings of anger and pain, then I beg now for your forgiveness._

_ Have you never seen how much I valued you, mon cher Hastings, your friendship, your unwavering loyalty and trust? If ever I was able to lead, it was only because you were willing to follow and so pushed me on further. I have always relied on you, mon ami, and you have never failed me._

_ Godspeed mon cher ami, my Arthur, and may le bon Dieu keep you safe until we meet again._

_ Hercule Poirot._

I drew a deep shaky breath at the end that was perilously close to a sob.

"Are you all right?" Miss Lemon asked.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment against threatening tears and then handed the letter to her. "Read it, please." I said in a choked voice.

She read in silence while I sat with my head bowed. After a moment she said "Oh, Captain Hastings," in a voice that sounded as unsteady as mine. I took the letter back from her and folded it carefully before replacing it in the envelope and placing it in my pocket.

"He always has the last word, doesn't he, Miss Lemon?" I said. I was trying for lightness but had to swallow hard before I spoke.

"Always." She agreed. She smiled, but her eyes were shining with unshed tears as we walked out into the bright, cold sunshine.

* * *

"Captain Hastings?"

The tone of Miss Lemon's voice suggested she'd spoken my name more than once before I actually heard her. I started slightly, pulling my gaze from the depths of my own tea cup. "Sorry, Miss Lemon; did you say something?"

She was frowning slightly with concern. "Are you all right? You've been silent since we left the solicitor's office."

We'd retreated to a Lyons Tea House and I'd managed to order a pot of tea for two and ask Miss Lemon if she cared for anything to eat before we'd been seated and I'd stared at my tea cup as though I could truly read my future in its depths. I took a mouthful now and grimaced; I'd been sitting long enough for the tea to become cold and stale. I pushed it aside and signalled to one of the waitresses. She came over smartly and I requested a fresh pot of tea, waiting while she cleared away the old tea and the used crockery before I answered Miss Lemon. "I'm just a little…bewildered I suppose, Miss Lemon." I said. "You remember that I was the original executor of Poirot's will three or four years ago? When he told me he'd changed his mind and had appointed his solicitor as his executor instead, I felt - well, hurt, I suppose. I thought that Poirot didn't trust me to carry out that task." I swallowed, remembering the hurt I'd felt and thought how ridiculous it was now. "To find out that he'd done it because he wanted to leave what he could to me…" My voice trailed off and I gave her a shrug.

There was more to it than that, but that would've been impossible for me to put into words – the fact that Poirot had held me in such affection, the words he'd written in his letter… they were enough to make an unseemly lump rise in my throat, and for all that it wasn't really proper to talk about such things, I would always treasure his last words to me.

As usual Miss Lemon seemed to understand what I wasn't saying. "He loved you, Captain Hastings," she said gently, "almost like a brother, I think. I wish you could've seen how it affected him when you went to South America and we thought you might stay there. He threw himself into his work almost with a sort of desperation. I think without you he felt his life was considerably emptier. It seems an odd word to use for Mister Poirot, but he was lonely."

"But Poirot had lots of friends," I protested, "there's you and Japp and Miss Oliver, and…"

"I was his secretary, Captain Hastings, and Japp was a friend, yes, but he came to see Poirot because he needed his help most of the time. I think you were the only person he ever really thought of first as a friend and second as… an assistant, or a client or whatever. Do you realise you were the only person he ever called _'mon cher ami'_? With Japp or me it was only _'mon ami'_ sometimes. I think the truth is you were his only dear friend."

The waitress brought the new tea things and I considered her words as I poured us both a fresh cup of tea. I handed Miss Lemon her cup and said, somewhat awkwardly, "I thought of him as my dear friend too, Miss Lemon."

She gave me one of her understanding smiles, touching me lightly on the arm. "I know that, Captain Hastings. And so did he."

* * *

Stephen Allerton lived in an apartment in a new housing complex in the north of Shepherd's Bush, near the site that had once housed the exhibition pavilions known as the Great White City. He showed us into a modest sitting room politely enough even though he still looked tense and nervous.

"Thank you for coming around so promptly," he said quietly, perching awkwardly on the edge of his chair. "I couldn't really talk at the shop, you see." His eyes met mine and darted away again nervously.

"But you can talk now." I prompted.

"Can I?" His gaze flickered onto me again as he twisted his hands together. I saw him swallow and then he said, "I didn't have anything to do with Mister Poirot's death, Captain Hastings. I remember Miss Lemon from working with him before, and she'll tell you I tried to be helpful with his case involving the stolen jewels being fenced."

Since Miss Lemon had already told me that I nodded, and waited for him to continue.

"But I may – I mean, I hope I'm wrong about this – but I may know something about what led to his death," he blurted, and then fell silent.

I waited for a few seconds, and then prompted him. "Yes?"

He gave me a look of sheer misery. "But – but I can't tell you, because… because it could get me into the most fearful trouble."

Thinking he was afraid of Poirot's murderer seeking revenge, I said "You needn't worry about that. If you can tell us what you know we can talk to Chief Inspector Japp and see about getting you some sort of police protection." I knew Japp could organise something of the sort if absolutely necessary, and thought he would consider getting Poirot's murderer convicted important enough to do so.

Allerton shook his head. "No, you don't understand, Captain Hastings. I can't tell you because – I could be in trouble with the law. And not just me. There are others…" His voice trailed off.

I stared at him, baffled. There was no doubt Allerton honestly meant what he was saying; he was the very picture of anguish, sitting slump-shouldered and pale faced in his chair. I felt a spurt of irritation – it may be that he had vital information, but he wouldn't or couldn't tell me because of whatever real or imagined consequences he feared.

"We might be able to speak to Japp, get things sorted out for you," Miss Lemon suggested. It was unlike her to suggest something potentially morally questionable, and I had to assume it was because she wanted to see Poirot avenged as badly as I did.

"I don't think you can." He gave a sigh and straightened up a little. "Let me talk to… the other people involved. If we decide we can risk talking to you then I'll be in touch." He looked at his watch. "And now, would you mind leaving? I have things to do."

I supressed another surge of irritation. I wanted to demand whatever information he had, but such an action would only make him stubborn and in all honesty, if his words would put other people at risk then I had no right to do so. I glanced at Miss Lemon and reluctantly stood up. "I hope you will get in touch, Mister Allerton," I said. "I'm anxious to see Poirot's murderer face justice. He was a very great friend of mine."

He gave a brief, sad smile. "Yes, I can understand that, Captain Hastings. I would feel the same way if – well," he dropped whatever he'd been about to say with a shrug.

Back outside, we reluctantly made our way back to the Lagonda. "So what do we do now, Captain Hastings?" Miss Lemon asked, sounding subdued.

"I'm not sure." I admitted with a sense of frustration; it seemed that I was never sure any more. I glanced back at the apartment block we'd just left, and noticed a figure making their way to the building. He passed under a street light, and I caught my breath as I got a clear glimpse of his face. I leaned back against the Lagonda as he entered the building, my brain spinning with new ideas.

I didn't move for a while, didn't speak, just thought. I was usually eager for action, impulsive, according to Poirot, but this time I wanted to think, to consider if my next course of action would bring results. I took a deep breath, calming myself. I was fairly sure that for once I had the right idea, and had to handle things carefully.

Miss Lemon kept silent, though I was aware of her watching me curiously. "Captain Hastings?" She asked at last.

"Yes." I pushed myself away from the car. "Let's go and pay another visit on Mister Allerton and his guest, shall we?"

"His guest?"

"The young man who just arrived. I can't believe he's come to see someone else, that would be too much of a coincidence."

When there was no response to my first ringing of the doorbell, I simply held it down with my thumb, letting it ring constantly. Eventually I heard the sound of feet approaching the door. Allerton blanched when he saw who it was, what little colour there was draining out of his face.

"Maybe we could have that talk now, Mister Allerton," I said gently. My eyes went to the sitting room where I could glimpse the shadow of the other man. "A talk with you and Mister Boulet."


End file.
